You Guys, I Think I Got Negged!
First. First I have to tell you about the train. I am in the middle of a big East Coast Nonsense Tour, and my friend Johnny, whom I may have dated for a hot minute in college 20 years ago, said “come out to Long Island” and I said “can we have a barbecue?” and he said “yes,” and I said “fuk yeh.” He would pick me up from the Long Island Railroad! We would have a weekend of beer and friendship! It would be perfect!
I am not a girl who cries about rape culture. Waaaaah rape culture! The men, they looked at me, and maybe said a thing, on the street! But that train was fucking terrifying, y’all. It was a moveable rape feast, the women all huddled at the back of the car, trying to escape the notice of the band of wilding white men who shouted and whooped and chanted their clever remarks about “cheesecake” the entire hour, their piercing hyena screams as predatory as their phallic bald heads (and police department T-shirts). You guys, it was awful.
So am I having a great time with Johnny? Of fucking course I am. I respect his good citizenship, as evidenced by the time he beat up two guys at a Burger King for throwing French fries on the ground for an employee with Down’s syndrome to sweep up. Johnny does not tell people that story, so let me tell it for him: two guys were throwing French fries on the ground for an employee with Down’s syndrome to sweep up, and Johnny kicked both of their asses.
See? Good citizenship! Had I been there, I would not have so much “helped,” but I would have shouted encouragement! And then I would have bought him the beer of friendship.
So Johnny took me to a party. (Actually, he took me to two, but “What You Will Learn At Someone’s Grandma’s 90th Birthday Party” I think gets its own post, don’t you?) And it was fancy and full of fun nice people, and was basically in West Egg, at Gatsby’s place pretty much.
And I was talking to the people, because it is How I Do, and the girls were all complimenting my fabulous red coat I bought in Chicago and in which I always feel like a movie star, like, pretty much Audrey Hepburn if she was way more awesomer — really, go ahead, look at that fucking jacket — and the men were telling me I was pretty, so I was like “good party, that I very much like!”
And then I did the unthinkably idiotic. Talking to two lawyers, you are not going to believe this, but I actually said words, with my mouth, for almost 40 seconds. It was pretty basic: I live in Los Angeles, I am thinking about moving to the East Coast because I have to get up too early in LA, and I never get to go out and at night and instead I just get high and watch Rhoda.
“You are stunningly beautiful,” said the one guy, the one who this story is about. “But listening to you is making my ears bleed.”
So I am supposed to take away from that that I am stunningly beautiful, right? Yes, that is what I will go with. Except really I went like this:
And then I went like this:
And then, in my most mellifluous and least shrill NPR-styley voice, I asked him who the fuck goes around insulting women to their faces (besides Mitt Romney) and oh, was I disturbing him with my incessant fucking interminable (40-second) monologue of fucking gum-flapping, by which I mean “making conversation”? And then he left, and the other lawyer, who was 50 and who offered to give me his house, until his 22-year-old girlfriend showed up to ask if he was “bothering” me, said, “He throws two parties a year that cost a hundred thousand dollars each!” So, clearly a real mensch, because we all know who the awesome people are, and they are the ones who throw big parties and insult you to your angel’s face, amirite ladies of course I am.
So here is my point, besides, WHAT THE FUCK LONG ISLAND. It is fun to have men tell you you are pretty, and offer to give you their house! Yay sexual objectification, not kidding, good times!
But the actual “neg” — the thing the Pick Up Artist teaches sad men to do, when you wrap your compliment (in this case, that I am “stunningly beautiful,” which, knock yourself out dude, it’s adorable, and hilarious, and I’ll believe you as far as I can throw you, but, fun party talk, go for it!) in a fucking to-your-face insult, so the woman, who is clearly A Idiot, will feel like she must now work for your approval — is not going to work on most 40-year-old women, not even the sad dumb ones. Find a 22-year-old — or, better, a 17-year-old — and flash some cash and offer to give her your house and then explain why she is a hideous monster who must shut her ear-bleedy lady’s mouth now and further how she must just nod and smile until it is time for her to blow you.
She might stick around for a solid week or three!
You guys, this place is weird.